Free Dark Warrior Rising by Ed Greenwood Page A

time he lowered his head again, she was back before him, holding out an empty flagon and a huge decanter with icefire sparkling up into its very neck.
    With a roar of pleasure Rolaurel backhanded the metal flagon out of her grasp, sending it clanging away across the Ledge. Snatching the decanter from her, he emptied it in one long swig that made the watching shes gasp in awe.
    On the wings of another bellow of laughter he whirled around and flung the great decanter to its shattering destruction against the nearest wall, sending a roar after it: “So shall we serve all foes of Talonnorn!”

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    Luelldar was contemptuously amused. “The last time I saw such empty strutting revelry, I was up in the Blindingbright, watching humans around a campfire. Just before we burst forth and began our slaughter.”
    Aloun nodded, tight-lipped in unsmiling disgust. “Their boasting and preening is unworthy of Niflghar. I doubt even their eldest crones are so swaggering in their overconfidence.”
    Luelldar turned away from the watch-whorl. “Well, let them drink and rut—and so be far from the saddles of their darkwings when we strike. It won’t be long now.”
    â€œAs the fools of Talonnorn laze and strut, all unsuspecting,” Aloun murmured, slowly growing a smile that was less than nice, “they’ll never know their doom until their city is shattered forever around their ears.”
    Luelldar was now casting swift spells on small clear crystal spheres that sat in individual carved cradles on the desk beside him. As he finished each spell and touched each orb with a finger, it floated up into the air, spinning gently, to float at the level of his mouth. They moved as he moved, awake and ready to carry his commands, observations, and warnings to distant warblades of Ouvahlor as he watched the fighting unfold.
    He waved at Aloun to relinquish his seat and go across the chamber, to sit at a distant desk.
    The younger Ouvahlan rose reluctantly, frowning. “Already?”
    â€œThe moment a single speaking-sphere is active, I am at risk from Talonar magics. You can hardly replace me if I fall, if you’re sitting right beside me and fried by whatever blasts me. This is not a game, Aloun.”
    â€œYes, but Talonnorn sleeps ! They won’t know what—”
    â€œWar is … war. Nothing unfolds as intended. Nothing. Remember that, if you learn nothing else from what we are about to unleash. More than that: Not all the crones of Talonnorn are petty fools or blinded by Olone or gone oriad. There’s a reason they alone, when age ravages them, are allowed to hide their wrinkled and withered ugliness behind masks—‘holy masks of the Goddess’—and continue to lord it over their city, rather than being cast forth into the Dark to feed the prowling beasts and entertain the Ravagers.”
    â€œBut you said Klarandarr’s spells are stronger than anything they can cast!”
    â€œI did, and meant it. Yet he’s but one, and risen not so long. Think,
Aloun. Why did you think Ouvahlor has prepared so long for this if the Nifl of Olone are as decadent, oblivious, and overconfident as all that? We have Klarandarr—and Talonnorn has had thousands of crones, daughter after mother, time and again, and each one of them casting spells, to await the time when Talonnorn is threatened.”
    â€œUnholy … melting … Ever-Ice,” Aloun whispered, hoarsely and slowly, his jet-black skin slowly going pale.
    â€œ Now you’re beginning to understand. At last. Hurts, doesn’t it?”

5
    All Our Ancestors Undefended

    It is for this reason that ineffectiveness in battle profanes Olone, despite the ugliness and imperfection of such strife: that to leave all our ancestors undefended, by the loss of so many they have handed down memories to, is to weaken the shared understanding of beauty that is Olone. In the knowing of Olone, Olone